Page 3 of The Hitch
This is what I needed. Sure, there's a few other cars on the road. But not enough to heighten my anxiety. I really, truly, feel alone in this moment. And it's pure bliss.
I can't hurt anyone when I'm alone. Well, except for me, but who cares about that?
Unfortunately, that line of thought brings the buzzing back. God, it's back in force. My fingers flex around the wheel, and my breath hitches in my throat. Fuck. I can't do this again. I can't start my life over again. I don't want to be on the run forever, but I alsoreallydon't want to languish in prison.
Fuck. My heart jumps into my goddamn throat, and I'm white-knuckling it on the highway. I need to turn around, I need to get back home. I can just take some melatonin and sleep it off. It'll be fine.
I'll be fine.
And yet, I can't make myself pull off to the shoulder. My foot presses down on the gas pedal, and I can't stop it. The poor engine of this stupid sedan whines as I push it further, further—God, I hope there isn't a cop around here. Wouldn't that be hilarious?That'show I go down? Speeding in the boonies?
Before I know it, I'm cackling like a cartoon witch speeding down this backwoods highway. My eyes sting, and tears roll down my cheeks as I laugh. This is insane. My stomach leaps and drops with the car as I rocket along, faster and faster. The pine trees meld into a green blur, separated only by the ash grey of the worn asphalt.
I must have lost time because I don't remember when my voice gave out. And I sure as shit don't remember coming out the other end of the Pinelands. But the rocky soil on the shoulder gives way to loamy sand, while the trees shift from towering pines to tall grasses. My heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
This is bad. This is really bad. I've never lost time before. Definitely not when I've been using myonecoping mechanism. I'm not even sure where I am, except for probably close to the shore. Atlantic City? Cape May?
Bing bing bing.
Tearing my eyes from the approaching coastal town, I see my car is almost out of gas. Fuck. I run my hand down my face and clutch my cheek. Can I fake being normal for long enough to get gas? Shit, do I evenhaveenough money for gas? This little excursion has turned into, unequivocally, a bad time.
I'll have to take my chances either way because the needle on my gas gauge is beyond empty. My car is running on fumes, and I don't feel much better. Luckily, there's a gas station at the next exit. Steeling myself, I steer the car and plaster a normal-people smile on my face.
Until I remember I'm in New Jersey, and I can't pump my own gas. "Motherfucker."
A bored-looking man in high-vis yellow pokes out from the little attendant booth. Without a word, he holds out his hand for my card, and I rifle through my purse.
"Have a good evening?" I smile and say through my teeth, then cringe. What the fuck was that supposed to be? He just shrugs and points to the rear of my car.
"Regular?" he asks in a monotone voice.
"Yeah, you could say my evening is regular. I mean, it's trying to be. Iwantit to be regular. But we don't always get what we want, y'know?" Fuck, I can hear my voice ratcheting up several octaves.
"Do you want regular gas. Or premium."
I know it's supposed to be a question, but there's no inflection. I don't quite comprehend the words until I repeat them in my head a few times, staring him down. He kicks at the crumpled-up wrapper of some fast food item with his stained off-brand sneakers. Wait, did he ask me something?
"What?" I croak out.
"Do you want me to fill up your car with regular gas?" He furrows his brows and takes a half-step back. Probably wise. He hasn't done anything to me, but my urges want me to fucking kill him.
"Yes, please. Thank you," I manage to grit out through clenched teeth. He's just the wrong person at the wrong place. He hasn't hurt me. He hasn't done anything to me. Why do I wanna see him bleed so bad?
I force myself to stare straight ahead as he fills up my car. Fuck. Fuck. My hands won't stop trying to strangle the steering wheel. I'm itching to grab my knife from between the console and my seat. But there are cameras here—it's a gas station, of course, there are cameras.
Not here. Not now. I don't fucking want tobelike this, but the dull itch at the base of my skull builds to a roar. It's taking every last ounce of my willpower to keep my eyes straight, force my hands on the wheel, andforget about the fucking knife.
Just as I'm starting to lose my battle, he shoves my credit card back through my window and tosses the receipt after it. I peel out like a bat out of hell and promise myself a cozy night in—I'll take some melatonin. I'll pass out at a reasonable hour. I'll sleep this all off, and tomorrow will be like it never happened.
Dante
Clods of dirt rain down on the drenched cardboard, mixed with my sweat. A flock of birds takes off somewhere beyond the little clearing I'd found. The massive old-growth pines hide secrets, they say. Well, what's one more to add to the bunch? I crack a smile and heave another shovel-full of dirt.
Getting away from the office, the meetings, the ever-watching eyes was almost worth the trip. Not to mention that my current mission isn't exactly on the books. But sometimes one needs totake care of business on one's own, and that's exactly what I aim to do.
Once the hole is filled, I arrange heavy stones on top, dissuading the local wildlife from uncovering the pines' newest secret. Sweat pours down my body, and the shovel slips in my hands—I'm getting soft. That's unacceptable. If I am to be The Dantalion, I need to up my game. Everything in my life has led up to the upcoming ceremony, if I can find a goddamn wife.
"I'd ask what you think, Barry, but you're in no shape to answer for anything," I laugh towards the mound of dirt and rocks. Oh, Barry. He justhadto cross me. Did he sleep with my girlfriend? Nope, don't have one of those. Did he sideswipe my car? No, nothing so simple. He sniped my real estate deal and ran off with the buyer's money. And nowI'mon the hook for 2.8 million dollars.
